The Crystal Flagon
by arrenallwise
Summary: Injured on a job and alone, Dean finds help with an unexpected and special lady, in a protected place.


The Crystal Flagon

-by Arrenallwise

Winchester S.O.P. : Always locate the nearest local hospital and plan a route. If possible, plan routes to the hospital in relation to A) the Job site, B) the motel and C) the local Bar/Roadhouse of choice. In this case, S.O.P. was S.O.L. and Dean was all too aware of his ill-advised disregard for the fundamentals of The John Winchester School of Hunting.

To be fair, the ill-advised disregard was less along the lines of poor planning, and more along the lines of there-is-no-hospital-in-this-God-forsaken-shit-hole-excuse-for-a-town, and the likelihood of making it back to the only hotel within sixty miles was becoming less of a possibility with each mile and more of a certainty that Dean Winchester may actually finally die in the front seat of the Impala like he always thought he might.

If Sam were here, he might consider letting him drive. Just this once. He swiped a hand over his eyes to clear the sweat and blood that clouded his vision. The night was cloudy and the full moon, the damned werewolf beckoning, preternatural full moon was hidden by the dense, wet mist that the Impala cut through like a dull black knife, forcing swirls of damp gray mist to billow behind. The windshield wipers tried to move aside the worst of it, but between the thick mist and the sweat and the blood and the tears, the headlights did little to guide the way. Dean had to ease up on the accelerator so he wouldn't end up in a ditch and add yet another layer to the already rich tapestry of his evening.

His left arm was cradled tightly to his side, the tips of his left hand reaching the steering wheel more or less, while his right held the rolled up flannel shirt that he pressed firmly against his left shoulder. Steering with his right elbow and the occasional knee made the ditch thing likelier as the moments passed. He dared not release the pressure on his shoulder for fear he would bleed out, pass out and end up in the damn ditch anyway.

He blinked again to clear his eyes when up ahead he thought he saw a red light. A few blinks and a swipe did not make it go away so Dean surmised he had reached the Crystal Flagon Inn with its neon beacon that beckoned travelers on the longest, loneliest stretch of windswept dusty highway in the lower forty-eight. It flitted through Dean's mind, not for the first time that the unusual name belied the ordinariness of this roadside motel.

Dean had to release the shirt and use both hands to turn the big heavy car left into the gravel parking lot. He went by feel more than sight to where his room should be; near the end of the long side of the L-shaped relic from the 1950's.

He reached across his body with his right hand to lift the latch, and then leaned into the door, pushing it with his ebbing reserves of strength. The door groaned, squealed, and then opened wide as Dean's body carried through its momentum, sliding liquidly to the gravel. He thought he may have blacked out for a moment or two when he opened his eyes to look up into the night sky and had to push aside pain to try and remember where he was, and what he was doing. The dinging of the alarm that helpfully let him know he had left his keys in the ignition roused him with its annoying, relentless chime. He would gladly let Sam drive if he would just make it stop.

Sam. As he pulled his foot out from the car and pulled himself up using the heavy door, he remembered. "Dammit, Sam, son of a…" Pulling with his left arm reminded him viciously of the torn skin and probably muscle that the three inch claws had rent in his left chest and shoulder. His head swam and points of light danced in the periphery of his vision, where the center was a spreading circle of black.

Finally on his knees, he reached into the car and yanked the keys out of the ignition, silencing the offending alarm. He laid his head on the warm leather of the bench seat to catch his breath, and close his eyes for just a moment.

"Ya gonna spend the night on your knees, boy?"

Dean jerked awake at the shake on his shoulder, the _other_ one, thank God. "What?"

"I said you gonna stay here all night, er do ya wanna go inside where it's warm?" 

Dean licked his lips but he was dry, no spit. "Uh, yeah, sorry," he pushed himself out of the car and stood, holding to the roof, but swaying precariously. He felt arms clinch around his waist, and pull him back.

"No need for sorry, you ain't gonna make it by yourself no how. C'mon boy, don't keep me standing here trying to hold your heavy ass up."

"Uh, yes ma'am." He looked down at white wisps of fine hair that were loose from the otherwise tightly pulled bun on the back of her head. A groan escaped as he tried not to lean too heavily on the small woman. She was short, but round and soft, and seemingly stronger than she looked.

Thinking back on it later, Dean could not quite put together how he got from the car to the bed in his room. He remembered his right arm around the woman's shoulders, and leaning forward so that his shoes and her skirts were all he could see. But somehow, they made it together, and Dean was lying flat out on his bed and the old woman was tugging off his boots.

"That's okay, ma'am, I can..."

"No you can't and you know it. You've lost too much blood and you're weak as a day old kitten." She tossed the second boot on the floor and straightened up, hands on her ample hips. Her large blue eyes were the clearest Dean had ever seen in one so old. She was no doubt once a beauty, but age had robbed her of the firm skin and womanly curves that she had probably once enjoyed. But her eyes had not suffered the same fate. They were clear, kind, and surrounded by wrinkles brought on by a lifetime of merriment. Her clothes were old, not just in age, but in style. Long dress, almost to her angles, an apron that covered from bosom to mid-skirt, the kind of apron ladies used to wear for housework and never seemed to be without except for when company was at the door. The dress had faded blue flowers that when new, must have competed with the blue of her eyes.

"Yes,ma'am. I'm not gonna argue about that, but you don't have to stay. I just wanna sleep."

"Not till we get you cleaned up and those cuts tended to. What kind of hostess would I be if I left you to stitch your own self up? Don't worry, boy, I've seen worse and you ain't got nothin' I ain't seen b'fore." She winked and headed for the bathroom.

"Hostess?" Dean tried to rise up on his elbow, but with his head swimming, and his left shoulder burning, he thought better of it and aborted. He fell heavily back to the thick pillows.

"Yessir, I own the place. Grew up here too. 'Course it wasn't a motel then. My daddy had a little pig farm here once.," her voice carried from the bathroom where she was running the water.

Before Dean knew it, there was a cool rag on his forehead. He reached up and pressed it into the pain lancing behind his eyes. "I didn't see you when I checked in."

"I was there."

She stood back and clasped wrinkled, gnarled hands over her tummy and looked down on the young man who had wandered into her life. It was good to have someone to take care of again.

"Let's get that jacket and shirt offen you and see what we got to deal with here." Dean felt the bed sink as she sat and started slowly working his arm out of his sleeve. Once again, he later couldn't remember exactly how it happened, but somehow she managed it. He had passed out somewhere in the process. He opened his eyes to a dark room, with only the yellow flickering light of a candle on the bedside table.

The room was warm, or maybe he was. He was covered to his chin with sheet, blanket and comforter. A soft shuffle drew his attention to the rocking chair beside the bed. The old lady was rocking slowly, humming to herself and a crochet hook was flicking so quickly he couldn't follow. The soft, blue and fluffy output was lying across her lap and draping almost to the floor.

"You with me, boy?"

Dean cleared his throat, "Yes, ma'am, I think so."

"That's fine," she smiled, eyes twinkling. She rose to her feet and laid her yarn-work on the chair behind her. "You been sleeping for a few hours," she said as she leaned over and laid a warm hand on Dean's forehead, then slid around to his cheek. "Yer a might hot yet. Need to get some liquid into you."

She turned to the bedside table and reappeared in Dean's field of vision with a pitcher of lemonade. Not just any pitcher. It was a deeply cut and ornate cut glass lemonade pitcher. He recognized the workmanship and the value. An old girlfriend's family owned an antique auction house. The pitcher was not something he expected to see in a place like this. A fancy restaurant, or an antique shop, maybe, but not here. He almost laughed at his own double-take, but to do so would have been too painful. "Where did that…?"

"Never mind boy, just drink up." She sat beside him and helped him lift up enough to drain one glass and part of another before exhaustion forced him to lie back down.

She resettled herself in the rocker and took up her crochet hook again, glancing over at Dean. "You wanna tell me what you got yourself into, boy?"

Dean reached to his left shoulder and felt a thick bandage on his chest and upper arm. "Not sure you'd believe me if I told you."

The old woman stopped her needlework, and rocked forward. "Try me, son." Her tone had altered. No longer light and sweet, she was dead serious. "Ain't much I ain't heard about from my husband, or seed for m'self. What was it? Werewolf? Right time of the month, I figure."

Dean stared. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Something told him that lying would get him nowhere. "Um, yes ma'am. Werewolf."

"Did you kill it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said with not a little pride and a sly grin.

She rocked back and took up her crochet hook again. "But not before he did hisself some damage. You were lucky." Then after a few moments of silence, "Don't you know not to go hunting a werewolf by yourself? What's the matter with you, boy? You got a death wish or somethin'?"

Dean gave a rueful chuckle, which brought him up short. "Shit, that hurts." He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut for the few moments it took for the pain to pass.

"How long you been hunting, son?" she asked.

Dean chuckled quietly. "All my life, ma'am," he said, world-weariness washing over him. He shifted in the bed, trying for a more comfortable position. There was none. "My dad took me on my first hunt at eight. Killed my first Vampire at twelve."

"Hmm, family business, huh?"

Dean grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

"Shame."

Dean looked over at her. "Why do you say that?"

"Takes over your life. I seen it b'fore. When you're a hunter, that's all there is." She leaned back in the rocker, her crocheting forgotten in her lap. She appeared to look at the ceiling, but she was really looking at the past.

"My Boyd was as good as they come, but he couldn't stop. There was no vacation from it. Hell, if I hadn't gone on hunts with him, we might not see each other for months at a time. As it is, that's the only way I was able to have a family." She smiled as she remembered. "Two boys. Both born in motels, kinda like this one."

After a moment, she picked up her crocheting again. "Why are you hunting alone?"

"My dad is missing right now. I'm on his trail, but this job came up and I had to take care of it first. My little brother's in college."

"Good for him! I hope he can stay out."

Changing the subject quickly, Dean asked, "What happened to Boyd and your sons?" She didn't answer right away. "I'm sorry if I'm prying."

"No, it's okay. Boyd died of an infection from a chupacabra bite. Back then we didn't have much in the way of them antibiotics they got these days."

"And your sons?"

"I kept them out of the business. Never told them what their daddy did and they never caught on," she smiled. "My younger boy went into Insurance and died an old man. My older boy went into the hotel business." She turned and looked at Dean and smiled. "This motel is his and when he passed on, it went to his kids. His grandson is running it now."

Dean had closed his eyes and was in a half-doze, but this woke him with a start. "What? His grandson…?"

"That's right," she went on. "Happy family, all of them, and long lived, too. I'm right proud of that."

"But…" Dean tried to lift himself on one elbow, but failed.

"Don't try to wrap your head around it right now, son. You just try to get some rest. You're going to be just fine tomorrow. You won't need me anymore…"

As much as he tried, Dean was unable to stay awake. Deep, dreamless, healing sleep overcame him like a North Shore wave in winter.

Loud banging inside his head woke him with a start. The hammer continued and he pressed his hands to his head and rolled over on his side, burying his head in the pillow.

"Mister! Mister! You in there? Mr. Winchester?"

The banging ceased for a moment, and then started again. "Alright! I'm coming!" He knows he yelled, but all he heard was a hoarse whisper. And more banging.

He pulled the blanket away and moved first one leg, then the other to the side of the bed. He used his right arm to push himself up, and then had to sit for a minute while the room, and his stomach, settled down. With his right hand pressed to his left shoulder, he pushed himself off the bed, but had to quickly grab the chair to steady himself.

He looked down at his shoulder and found he was wearing a clean t-shirt over the large white bandage. Now more steady, he started to shuffle barefoot to the door. "I'm coming!," he yelled, then under his breath, "Please stop. Just stop."

He opened the door and immediately shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight, squinting.

A young man, probably in his 20s, with an earnest, clean-scrubbed face, stood at the door, hand poised to knock again. "Oh, gee, so sorry, Mr. Winchester. I was afraid maybe you left, or maybe you were dea…uh…sick or something."

"Or something," Dean grumbled.

"You were going to check out yesterday, and when you didn't we got worried, my wife and I."

He talked fast and it took a moment for Dean's muddled mind to catch up. "Uh, yeah, sorry…"

"Say, it looks like you got hurt! Are you okay? Do you need a doctor? Cuz we have a doctor that lives right over there…" he turned and pointed across the highway.

"No," Dean said quickly. "It's okay. I've already seen a doctor."

"Hey!" the manager pushed past him, "how did that get in here?" He went to the table beside the bed and gently lifted the heavy lemonade pitcher. "Darn kids! They know better than to play with this thing," he said, carrying it like a baby back to the door. "If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times, this is not for playing tea party with."

"Uh, " Dean said dumbly, scratching his head.

"Sorry, mister. Sure glad I found this. My father would have rolled over if we'd lost it." He was lovingly cradling the pitcher, then looked stricken at Dean. "Oh! Not that you would have taken it, mister, I was just uh…"

Dean looked quizzically at the pitcher, then to the rocker and back to the pitcher, "Uh, what…who…?"

"Oh, this? It was my grandmother Clara's. She got it as a wedding present back in 1921. She treasured it and kept it safe all her life," he shifted it to his other arm. "When she passed, my father got it, and he put it in the display cabinet in the lobby."

"She passed?" Dean mumbled.

"Yup, back in '88. This was the only thing she had of any value. Well this and the motel," he shuffled and grinned. "Been in the lobby ever-since. I got two little girls that think it's fun to take it out to play tea party with it. Guess I'm gonna have to get on 'em again…maybe put a lock on that cabinet," he said as an afterthought.

"Ah, the Crystal Flagon," it finally dawned on Dean. He looked up at the young man, "Did she die here at the motel?"

"Sure did," the manager said, a little too eagerly. "Right here in this very room as a matter of fact. She lived here the last years of her life. She was a right fine lady, she was." His smile told Dean he really meant it, too. "Oh she was plain and down to earth as they come, but she had a heart; as big as all outdoors, and …" He stopped himself. "Well, listen to me, just going on and on, and here you are feeling poorly. You go on back to bed and I'll leave you be. Just wanted to be sure you were still alive," he laughed as he backed away from the door. "If you want anything, just pick up the phone. We'll be glad to get you food, or medicine or something…"

He stepped outside into the bright sunshine and Dean half-closed the door. "You just feel free to stay as long as you need to recover. What was it, a hunting accident? Oh never mind. None of my business. You just stay on and when you're ready to go, come on by the office. You call now. If you need anything. Anything at all…"

He was still talking as he moved off down the sidewalk, carefully holding the Crystal Flagon like a precious trophy.

Dean closed the door softly, in deference to his pounding head, and shuffled to the bathroom. When he was finally able to lower himself back into the bed, he relaxed. Really relaxed for maybe the first time in a year. Tomorrow he would get back on the road. Maybe head up to northern California to see Sam, maybe to get Sam's help. Dad was still out there. Somewhere. He was alive, he knew it.

But today, he had found an Oasis. Normal people, who were good and kind and whose grandmother had protected them from the evil outside their doors. He hoped they could stay as innocent as they were. He had a feeling that Clara was watching over them.

Perhaps his being here was not just because of a random article he'd found buried in the back of a newspaper. Perhaps Clara brought hunters here when evil came knocking on her door. She knew it when she saw it. She'd seen a lot. She knew what was out there. And she knew who could help when her family was in danger.

Dean sighed, pulled the blue crochet coverlet and blankets over his shoulders and closed his eyes. Just before he dropped off, he felt a light hand on his forehead that slid down to his cheek.

~End~


End file.
